A sad Doc fic
by Kackington
Summary: Here's a quick narrative on Dr. Cockroach before and after his accident. This is currently a wip so if you'd like to give me some feedback I'd be more than happy to see it!


**Ah hi hello I started writing and now I'm tired so I guess this is a one-shot wip right now? Yeah I'm sorry if it's a bit wordy and dumb looking at the moment, I promise to go back later and fix it up. ;_;**

**But for now you can take a look at what I've got so far. Feedback is always appreciated!**

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It had been a quiet autumn morning the day of the accident. However he wouldn't have known that, he had been locked up in the study making calculations and building contraptions out of spare parts and pieces, his musings so farfetched that not even the wealthiest of men would be motivated to fund his projects; leaving him little to nothing to work with. He didn't need their money though, his brilliant mind fashioned together the most worthless bits of junk into beautiful works of scientific art; his ingenuity constructed homemade apparatuses for even the most unorthodox means of scientific exploration.

He had done it; he had known this would be the one.

A graduate of the Oxford class of 1946, a man whose intelligence put him through school rather than his wage, found himself struggling for sponsors years later, forcing him to rely on his own resources; which was not a foreign concept to the young man, never having fit in with the people who surrounded him.

He trumped the odds, tempted fate and thwarted those non-believers. He had done it, this had been the one. Years of research and investigation had led up to this. He would become a household name, he would show them, he would show them all, what he had truly been capable of.

This was it.

He rolled the camera, held his clipboard up to its face with the words, _MUTATION ENCHANCEMENT_ scrawled and bolded onto the sheet of paper. Below that and written next to a bullet point read, September 12th, 1952.

Stepping into the small chamber and initiating the experiment took seconds, all his life's work led up to this one crucial moment.

He had done it. In that single moment, he had done it. Maybe there was an error in the data, a point in the graph he had missed; the outlier experiment that had been overlooked was now perhaps the rationale behind this terrible mistake. He had done it, however, in retrospect, this was not how he had envisioned it.

His capture had been as quick as his transformation; a vague blur of figures blocked his now enhanced vision, shrouding him in darkness and taking him away without a sound.

He wouldn't be missed. His parents long dead and immediate family ashamed to admit their relations with the local quack; his estranged fiancée since moved on after growing tired of his time-consuming ambitions, his work winning over all his love and effort in her place. No one would know, and no one would care to know.

This was it.

He awoke to the sound of a distance buzzer illuminating the room with a dim shade of red. He had been introduced to a man who called himself General W.R. Monger, not even minutes later. The General was proud to announce that he had been the first monster inducted into his highly classified government facility. However the General's words went unheeded, the young man's head was spinning and mouth went dry; dazed and panic stricken, completely discounting the need for his medications, and frankly more concerned about the outcome of his experiment rather than his own well-being.

He had been given a moment to get his bearings, allowed to flee into a small, guarded washroom in the now humble, underdeveloped compound that would house him for the next several decades. He stared, wide-eyed, at the monster looking back at him in the mirror. His once charming face was replaced by a repulsive exoskeleton, bug eyes, antenna and all; causing him to flinch away and practically throw himself into the toilet nearby, heaving dryly into the bowl. Gagging and gasping for air, he held his now humungous head in his hands, the shock of the entire ordeal just now setting in.

He had been renamed. No longer would his name be revered for his great discovery of longevity, oh no, his birth name was now nothing more but a distant memory; erased from history and stripped from his very being. He was still a doctor, his degree still stood; the General reassured him of this when assigning him his new identity—Doctor Cockroach, PhD.

It didn't stop there, of course. They wouldn't allow him to leave; to return to his lab to study the figures and pinpoint the cause of the unwanted conclusion to his hypothesis. Caught in a deadlock, he was kept hidden away but all the while not allowed even a single opportunity to correct his mistake. They told him it had been reported as an accident, an experiment gone awry and resulting in a fatality. The Doctor died along with his work, and any and all opportunities to exceed it.

He mulled over the possibilities, the facts and numbers, in the confines of a small space for the next few years. The little human contact he received was through testing; young, upstanding scientists recorded his behaviors and measured his abilities, depriving him of his medications in case of interference with the testing. He became irritable, he spat at those youngsters, calling them cads and frauds; he was the real scientist, he was the genius. They were nothing; they couldn't even begin to wrap their minds around what he had already accomplished. Bitter and enraged, the Doctor's rushed time into monster-hood had left him stunted and still incredibly uncomfortable with his new body; especially with those judgmental eyes, those silent seers, staring at him through windows of reinforced steel, surveying his every move and analyzing his entire being as if he were anything less than a man.

The General would stop by from time to time to check in on the Doctor, who was never especially pleased to see his warden. He'd begin swearing his escape and cursing his captor in the worst ways possible, being held back by a plate of glass in between the two. However the General had been rugged by this age, and the Doctor's threats couldn't even dream of impressing him. He would often smirk at these remarks, humoring the poor man.

The Doctor would often gabble onto himself when alone, his immense knowledge already leaving him to be a sad, lonely person by nature, now left to contemplate his impending immortality, perhaps even more alone than ever before. He was a monster, an outcast from a society that had already isolated him many years before his metamorphosis.


End file.
